


those eyes are mine

by siriuslydraco



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-25
Updated: 2017-09-25
Packaged: 2018-11-15 19:11:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11237388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siriuslydraco/pseuds/siriuslydraco
Summary: Jon left Sansa a long time ago, but he may have left a piece of himself behind.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you guys enjoy! Leave a few comments and let me know how you like it :)

The snow begins to melt when he arrives at Winterfell, and she finds it fitting that the Dragon King be the one to melt the frost that holds the North at its mercy. She stands on the parapet with the Lady Brienne and the small boy that clasps her hand tightly. He's been listening to his nurses stories again, and now his head is filled with tales of Aegon and dragons and the throne of fire made swords. Sansa had warned him not to misbehave, not that he ever does, but his excitement at seeing the Targaryen heir almost makes him run towards the procession that marches towards the gates. 

"Mother, can you see him? Can you see the king?" he's all but four, and small for his age, but he squeezes her hand with the strength of a man grown. She looks upon her son, and feels her heart wrench when she sees his eyes like it always does, but she allows her lips to twitch slightly. 

"No, I can not see him clearly yet, but you must have patience. He'll be here soon" and there's a tightness in her voice that is too well hidden for a four year old to pick up on, but Brienne eyes her curiously from the corners of her eyes. She can sense the tension that comes from the red haired lady, and knows exactly why. Sansa's eyes narrow as the large group of men and horses get closer. She finds herself squeezing her sons hand for comfort and he looks up at her with those grey eyes, those Stark eyes. She smiles at him warmly and brushes an auburn curl from his face. 

When they ride closer the Lady of Winterfell and her household guard begin descending the ice kissed steps and down to the courtyard where the whole of Winterfell awaits the Kings arrival. They're weary and cautious, the people of Winterfell, as the Targaryen comes within the walls of the Norths stronghold. They had once bowed to him and called him their king, the same title they had bestowed on her brother Robb so long ago. Now the Northman lives in the South and sits on the throne he took from the mad and fearful Queen Daenerys. He had murdered his own blood to secure the safety of the realms, and they don't trust him any longer. 

But to Sansa he's no more than the boy she'd grown up with, no more than the man she'd grown to love. No more than Jon. Jon Snow. Jon Targaryen. It's odd to think of that name as he rides into her view, the shocking black of his hair arguing any claim to the Targaryen name. It doesn't suit him. Nor does Stark since he'd never been called that before. But Snow no longer seems to fit either, because he's not a bastard. He never had been. 

Now he's her King and she bows to him as he dismounts from his black horse, much to the displeasure of Jon. He doesn't like all these kingly courtesies and manners, and he knows as he looks at her that she should bow for no one. She's bowed and bent to so many false kings and lords, and he thinks himself another one. His eyes don't leave her as she rises from her curtsy and his heart pounds painfully against his chest as her eyes meet his. They're as blue as winter roses, and her lips stand out like blossoms against her ivory skin. She's more beautiful than ever, and he finds his memory did her no justice. 

"Your Grace" she breathes out, something in her tone making her sound as if she'll cry. Something inside her screams of the old Sansa, of the girl he had grown madly in love with, the girl he'd given any of his heart to but there's another layer to her face that almost resembles someone looking at a person they just met. This is my home, he thinks, and I'm being welcomed back as a stranger. 

"Lady Sansa" he bows his head to her, displaying the courtesies she's bestowed on him. She smiles warmly and he notices her eyes swiftly drop to her side and he follows her gaze. Beside her, and clasping onto her hand and impatiently bouncing on his heels, is the smallest child he's seen in so long. His face reminds him immediately of Arya, and there's a wildness in his eyes that seem familiar too but he can't place it. The winter winds blow his auburn curls, two shades darker than Sansa's, around his childish face and Jon feels something in his stomach turn to ice. 

"Who is this?" he finds himself asking, not caring that his voice shakes. It's not very kingly of him to appear so shocked in public, but he neither cares or takes notice. 

"My name is Robb" the tiny boy bounces as he stares at his king, a morbid fascination lighting up his grey eyes. Jon finds it unsettling to be looked upon with so much admiration from someone so young. Someone too young to know the horribleness he carries in his soul.  The mention of the boys name sets him off, and he feels a pang inside his chest as he says it, but he knows by looking at him that no other name would suit him. He's so like Robb, so like the King that should have ruled the north. In a sudden moment Jon wonders who his parents are, who owns this little boy. Maybe he's another bastard that's being fostered at Winterfell, just like he had been. 

"Robb" Jon tastes the name on his tongue and finds that it leaves a dryness in his mouth he finds unpleasant "what a grand name. I once had a brother with that name" Cousin. Something wicked reminds him of that, and he clenches his fist. It's been so long since he found out his true parentage, but something always feels so cruel at being robbed of the siblings he thought he had. But never Sansa. He can never regret not wanting her as a sister. 

"Is he the same as my mother's?" he asks in childish delight, his little brow scrunched up "mother had a brother called Robb, she says I look very like him and I'l be as big and strong as him one day. Don't you mother?" 

Jon feels the world tilt on its axis as little Robb addresses the red haired Lady of the North beside him. _Mother_ , he had called her. That meant that Sansa had long forgotten him, had bedded and wed another man and was now a mother to this beautiful child. Where was his father? The only person who stood beside her was the Lady Brienne and although she looked as male as any of them, Jon was certain is was not her. Was he dead then? Did he die in the war? The one he lead? Something makes him feel suddenly guilty for making this child fatherless but he can't feel sorry for Sansa being a widow. 

Something sickening crawls up his spine and whispers in his ear at the possibility that the child could belong to Petyr Baelish. But then the thought evaporates with the memory of how Sansa disliked his wandering eyes and swatted away his advances, and he believes that she would have never laid with him the way Petyr always desired her to. And there is nothing in Robb's face that reminisces the smarmy features of Baelish. This boy is a pure Stark, with the hair of a Tully. 

He can't seem to take his eyes off of Sansa and her son as he is lead into the grey keep of Winterfell, and finds it strange to think of her as a Mother no matter how many times the small boy addresses her as it. She's still so young, and looks as if she could be his sister, but the way she looks at him and smiles at his childish babble makes him truly see how maternal she really is. He never realised until now how much he wants what she already has, and there's a dull ache that tremors in his soul. 

He finds though that despite the hardness and weariness he's carried with him since he murdered his aunt, he allows himself to be the young Jon that frequented Winterfell when he's around Robb. The small boy sits near him at dinner, and when the ale starts to pour and the men start to get rowdy, he pouts and protests to his mother as she tries to usher him off to bed. Jon finds it surprising that he too tries to persuade her to let him stay at the high table. 

"Just one more story" Jon tells her, and he watches something in her eyes spark and something in her expression becomes sad when she looks between the boy and the King. She agrees stiffly and Jon resumes telling little Robb more about how Arya was a better marksman than any of the boys ever were, and he delights at talking about his sister -cousin, he reminds himself- after so long. He thinks of Arya across the sea and wonders when next she and that wild blacksmith boy will visit again. 

"He's a sweet child" he tells Sansa when Robb is finally put to bed and when she returns to sit beside him. Her cheeks are flushed and her eyes dart around the room, avoiding his gaze. Jon thought about another time when she would lay beside him and look no where else. When they would both stare into each others eyes and drown. Blue and grey, clashing rocks on the wildest sea. 

"Yes, he is" she says with an edge and Jon can sense she does not wish to speak of her son. He can sense some tightness in her frame and voice, and he guesses it must be because of her husband. A man he does not know the identity of yet. 

"You seem to have held the North well, my lady" he tells her, his eyes watching the dancing men and women before them and he lets his ears fill with the lute that plays. 

"I have not done it alone. Lady Brienne has helped me more than she cares to take credit for" Sansa tells him and she smiles softly "how has Kings Landing treated you?" 

"It's no Winterfell, but it suffices as a home for now" Jon tells her and he takes a swig of ale. It's coarse and bitter and he feels elation at the difference between it and all those spiced wines he's been made drink these past few years "I can not tell you how much I've missed the sight of snow" 

"It was the first thing I wanted to see the second I left that horrid place" Sansa retells him, although he already knows. She often told him of that time in the Vale when it snowed and when she thought she hadn't seen anything more glorious "I don't feel at home unless there's snow. Kings Landing never felt like home to me" 

"I don't want it to be my home" he almost whispers it but she hears him, and something in his tone makes her eyes shift to his, and she regrets it instantly. Those eyes, they have haunted her for years, and her sons eyes remind her of them every time she looks at him. She hates those eyes, and she hates the pain they bring but she makes herself look at them. She sees them every time she looks at Robb, so it's no different but somehow it is. She remembers looking into those eyes as he said goodbye, as he told her he needed to defend the north against the mad queen, and how he'd be back when it was all over. 

He hadn't thought it through. He hadn't contemplated his Aunt trying to kill him to diminish any claim he would have to the throne, and he hadn't planned on being crowned in her place while his sword still dripped with her blood. He hadn't asked for it, and hadn't wanted it. But the crown lies heavy on his head, and the throne on which he sits burns more than the dragon fire that made it. He had stayed and ruled, and had vowed to be a good king, a just king while Sansa had stayed here in the frozen realm that he loved so much. 

She remembers now as she looked at him, how he had written to her to join him but she had sworn to herself that she would never set foot in Kings Landing again, and she also had a secret she needed to keep hidden behind the ancient bricks of Winterfell. That secret now slept soundly in bed, his auburn curls on his pillow and his grey eyes closed to sleep. Eyes so like his fathers. Sansa abruptly pulls up from her chair, knocking her goblet of wine across her dress and making the legs on her chair scrape against the floor with an ugly sound. Jon's eyes widen with the suddenness of it, and hers look down at him with a mixture of emotions in her blue depths. 

"I must go" she tells him while swiftly curtsying "goodnight, Your Grace" 

With that she's gone, and he's left wanting to run after her and take her in his arms and demand to know why her eyes seem so pained. But he stays where he is, and he suddenly feels the chill of the North like he's never felt it before. And no dragon fire can warm him through her absence. 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the lovely comments guys! I hope you all enjoy this story :)

The training yard is full of the sounds of early morning sparring, the clash of steel on steel and the quivering zoom of arrows slicing through the air and hitting the straw targets. Jon relishes in the sound of it, since it makes him feel more at home than ever, but over in his corner there is a dull echo of wood on wood and he feels the timber sword is unfamiliar and alien in his hand. It's been decades since he's held one, even Lord Eddard had made he and Robb use the blunt steel ones when they were young. 

But now little Robb with the grey eyes and wolf like smile hits him with the wooden sword, more like a toy really, but Jon obliges and fights back much to the delight of the small child. There's a feral spark in his eyes that instantly reminds him of Arya and his long and shaggy hair that keeps falling into his eyes makes him think of Rickon. He is them all, he is his mother with his pale skin and good manners, he's Lady Catelyn and Robb with his auburn curls and Lord Eddard and Bran with that graciousness even at a young age. No matter who his father is, Jon can plainly see that he's all Stark and Tully, and none of whatever traits his sire had. 

The boys eyes glint mischeviously as he lunges out and there's something there, something unmistakably familiar in them that makes Jon think of himself. His mind whirls and his heart lurches and then the moment is gone, and the tip of Robb's wooden sword is jabbing at his side. Jon snaps out of it and growls playfully, a squeak leaving the child's mouth that is full of terrified glee. 

Jon can't help but chuckle deeply as Robb swings his sword on shaking skinny limbs and Jon let's him hit his sword off his own, the clack of wood ringing through Winterfell. There's something nice about fighting for no gain, and knowing there's no need to hurt the opponent. It's juvenile and it's playful and for a moment Jon feels like his father, how he used to be with him and the older Robb when they were so little. _Lord Eddard was my father,_ he thinks, _no matter what_. 

Robb hits his sword off Jon's leg, barely a tap that does not hurt but Jon groans in pretend pain and falls to the hard mud of the training yard. His eyes are wide and he checks himself over for imaginary injuries while Robb stands over him with a huge smile. The wooden sword quivers in small hands as Robb stands between Jon's legs and points the sword at his face, and Jon tries to hide his grin at the sight of it. Sansa has said he's four, but he's slight and small and could easily pass for a three year old, he's no great foe but in that moment Robb believes he's a giant who just slew the Targaryen king. 

"I yield! I yield!" Jon cries out and he can not keep from letting out a shaky laugh. Robb's graceful features twist and his bottom lip juts out in a pout. 

"You never yield!" Robb protests with a stubborn shake of his head, auburn curls tickling the pale skin of his forehead. 

"But you win" Jon told him "you've won the King in a duel and now you should tell everyone" 

Recognition and delight washes over the boys face and his eyes light with a triumphant glitter that makes Jon's heart swell. Playing the coward apparently paid off. Robb looks to the wooden parapets and he smiles when he sees the sight he wished to see; his tall and graceful mother standing there watching on with her pink lips pulled into a grin. 

"Mama I won the King! The King!" he emphasises with great enthusuasim and Jon has to duck when he twirls around with the sword still in his hands. 

"So you have, sweetling! I am most proud" she tells him, her eyes swiftly looking towards Jon who is still splayed on the ground "now you must leave King Jon alone and come to your lessons" 

"Can we have one more fight?" he pouts defiantly, and in that moment he's so undeniably Sansa that if Jon wasn't already on the ground he might have been knocked to it. Red hair falls around her shoulders as she shakes her head, and her blue eyes watch down on them like pieces of glass that the sun has cut through. 

"King Jon must attend the council and you must go to the Maester, he's already waiting for you" she tells him, and Jon makes a face as he looks to the ground. King Jon. That's about the hundreth time she's addressed him as that since he arrived here and he can not get used to it. He's not King Jon to her, he shouldn't be, he's just Jon. The man who took her in his arms so many years ago at Castle Black and swore to never let her go. 

But maybe, he thinks, things have changed too greatly. She's no longer that weeping girl that ran toward him in the snow, and now he's _King_ _Jon_. 

* * *

 The high table is full of goblets of ale and is surrounded by a group of North men and Targaryen guards; all rambunctiously chattering and spilling the golden mead onto the flag stoned floor. Sansa watches them with distaste, but can't help being reminded of how Winterfell used to be like this almost every night when she was a girl. The great hall is stuffed with men, and their loud grumbling chatter mixes in almost perfectly with the harsh and sporadic notes from the lutes that play Northern music. 

There is an emptiness inside her she thinks, that can not be filled no matter how many days pass. It's cold and hollow, and even the presence of the Dragon can not fill it with warmth. It's guilt she knows, unadulterated guilt that has swallowed her whole these past two weeks but she can not bring herself to say the truth.

Brienne has hounded her most days, bringing up Robb's name as if it will coerce Sansa into honesty but she can not do it. Maybe saying it will make everything worse, and maybe it's not the right thing to do. She knows what will happen if the truth gets out, and she knows what it would do to her family.

Her left side burns where she knows Jon sits and beside him her son rests. She can not bear to look at them, it will make her dizzy she fears. She did not believe her eyes when she saw Robb arrive at dinner with his nurse and found that his long shaggy hair was pulled back in a leather string; the very same as Jon wears. It was too much to bear, too much to witness so she's spent the whole dinner looking at the Stark banner down the back of the room, but she finds if she looks too quickly it changes to a dragon.

"You've been very quiet this evening" she hears beside her, and there's no denying Jon's voice. She'd know it anywhere.

"I've just been tired" Sansa finds her neck is stiff as she turns her head towards him, and her eyes take pleasure in how handsome he looks. His black hair is pulled back, and his grey eyes seem a shade lighter as the candles illuminate them.

"As am I. Those council meetings today were as boring as the ones in Kings Landing" Jon tells her, and she finds she wants to ask him so many questions about that wretched place. To find out what it's like now, but she holds her words back.

"I fear there's nothing too exciting about the North these days" Sansa tells him over the rim of her wine cup, her lips wetting red with its stain. Jon follows her tongue as it darts out to lick it away, and memories of her mouth on his neck, his chest, his stomach come to mind. He shifts in his chair as he feels a bead of sweat run down his forehead.

"I wouldn't say that, it's home to me. It's always nice coming back here. It's nice seeing you again, and Robb of course" the dull hollow aches painfully when he says his name and Sansa has to cough to conceal the wince she wishes to let out.

"He was ever so excited to meet you" Sansa finds herself saying, even though she doesn't know why. She looks over to where her son sits and smiles as she watches him squeal as one of the hounds under the table lick his hands "he's been hearing nothing but stories of dragons and Targaryens for weeks" 

"I hope I don't disappoint too much" there's a smile on his face but there's a sadness in his eyes that makes her heart clench. Jon always seemed so sad, so unloved and she had tried for years to convince him how much he deserved it all. But there was always going to be something inside him that fought for acceptance, even though seven kingdoms accepted him as their king. Honesty and a love that's been buried inside her for so long bubbles up to the surface and she finds she can't fight it down. 

"You could never disappoint, Jon" her words are soft but sincere and his whole body seizes where he sits, memories of other words she used to say swimming around like ghosts. Her blue eyes are crystalline as she stares at him, and for a moment Jon feels as if they're the only people in the room. She'd called him Jon, just Jon and nothing else and that's more acceptance of who he used to be than he could wish for. Her gaze drops from his as quick as it began and she coughs as she stands up. 

"Robb, I think it's time for bed" she calls to her son and unlike the last time, he does not object. Jon thinks it has to do with his drooping eyes and lolling mouth. He clumsily jumps from the high chair he's been sitting in, and one of his hounds nips lovingly at his feet as they follow him "say goodnight to the King" 

"Goodnight King Jon" Robb says with a tiny yawn, and Jon smiles. It almost doesn't sound too bad when he says it, it's almost endearing. 

"Goodnight Robb" he tells the small boy and is more than surprised when his arms outstretch for a hug. He climbs upon the Kings lap and Jon feels a sudden warmth at him being so close. He's only known the boy fourteen days now, but he loves him with a frightening urgency. His arms wrap around him and places a kiss to his hair. He smells of lemon and Jon guesses it's because of all the cakes he ate after dinner. Jon smiles to himself, Sansa's son indeed. 

"You be good for your mother, you hear?" Jon tells him softly as he lets him go, and his eyes wander to Sansa for a moment. Robb gives a nod and climbs away from the King and into the waiting arms of his mother. 

Jon feels colder as she walks away, but Robb keeps looking at him from over his mother's shoulder. The boys grey eyes flicker with candlelight as he meets Jons, and in that moment Jon _knows_.   


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tell me all your secrets, the one's you like to keep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So last part fellow Jonsa shippers! I've enjoyed writing clueless Jon and baby mama Sansa. These two are perfect for each other and they need to realise it, seven hells! But hope you all have enjoyed!

The corridor is cold and damp as he makes his way down it in nothing but a light shirt and breeches. The candles in the brackets flicker ominously against the stone walls and creates shadows that make Jon feels as if the grey bricks have monstrous eyes that stalk his every move. It feels as if the hallway will never end, and some sickening pull in his stomach makes him think he's down in the crypts. He can imagine as he turns the corner that the statue of his mother will be looking at him with those cold stone eyes piercing his soul. 

But the granite work of Lyanna Stark does not await him, but the hulking figure of Brienne of Tarth does, and to Jon that's even more haunting. She eyes him with great skepticism, those eyes that resemble the blue waters of the Sapphire Isle she hails from making him feel as if he's suddenly suffocating. But she bows her head in courtesy and he really wishes she wouldn't. He's here sneaking around the castle in just an undershirt and breeches, and he shouldn't be looked upon justly. He eyes Sansa's bed chamber door behind the Lady Knight and Brienne's shoulders straighten and her eyes get narrower. 

"Your Grace" Brienne's voice is deep but soothing, and something about it makes him take comfort in the fact that Sansa has trusted her counsel for years.   

"Lady Brienne" he gives her a slow nod, his eyes once again darting to the door. Impatience bubbles up inside him like acid, and he feels the sudden desire to charge straight past the woman and barge in. There are things Jon wants to say to the Lady of Winterfell, and he must say them now. 

"I can not let you enter" it's almost as if she's read his mind and Jon finds as if an invisible hand has slapped him in the face. Grey eyes meet blue and his blink with disbelief while hers don't move at all. He feels perhaps as if he _has_ come across a statue from the crypts after all since the Lady of Tarth turns to stony lines and sharp angles "I apologise Your Grace but I can not permit entry to anyone accept myself or her maid" 

"I understand, my lady" he likes her boldness; not many people would refuse the King of Westeros such an idle entry "but I must see her, this can not wait" 

"Your Grace -" 

"Please, I do not wish to quarrel but this is urgent" there must be something in his eyes that sparks his impatience because Brienne's staunch posture slackens and she sighs a heavy breath that screams defeat. _She must know_ , Jon wonders, _of course she knows about my son and now she sees right through me, she can tell that's why I've come_ "I have to see Sansa" 

Brienne's lips twitch and a puff of air releases between them as if she's about to form words; but none come out. Her eyes dart down the hallway and then back to Jon who is getting more impatient by the minute. 

"Perhaps I heard a noise somewhere in the castle and went to investigate, so that's why I must leave my post" she tells him, and he feels his heart soar with relief "she hasn't slept much since you came here Your Grace, I doubt she's sleeping now" Brienne tells him just before she turns around. 

"Thank you, Lady Brienne" Jon says and he's given a nod in return as she begins to walk down the hallway, her back to him and her figure getting smaller as it vanishes in the dim candlelight. Her footsteps disappear and suddenly Jon is alone, and all that awaits him is a heavy chamber door that seems as ominous as a wight. This is perhaps the hardest battle he's ever entered before, and he has no idea how he'll fight it. 

He hasn't even thought about what he'll say, or how he'll say it. There are voices in his head that whisper his folly, that tell him he has no claim to this child; that perhaps he is wrong. _But those eyes are mine,_ he thinks, _my eyes on a child born four years ago_. 

He had left Sansa four years ago. 

He finds his hand clenches around the brass door handle rather tightly as he pushes his way into her chambers; completely out of his wits since he didn't even think to knock first. But there is a carnal impatience that is causing him to abandon any logic and his heart is thumping so hard it's causing a dryness in his mouth. All he can think of is _Robb_. The name repeating in his head like a prayer. 

The Lady Knight was right, she must not sleep much and Jon finds that fact true as he steps into the swath of flickering candlelight that surrounds her chamber like a haven. She stands by the fireplace, the sparking flames choking and spluttering before they can turn to dying embers and their shadows are thrown against her as she stands there. She's all white and red, her hair down her back as bright as the flames she stands before and her arms are bare under her shift, creamy white and long and he can't help but trace her shape with his eyes. 

Sansa is a vision, and Jon almost forgets why he's here. _Almost_.  

"I should have known you'd come soon enough" she doesn't turn around to him, but somehow she knows he's there and Jon finds something inside him unsettles greatly. She has him now, she knows he's here and he can't turn and walk away like some part of his soul wants him to. 

He doesn't say anything in response but just watches the scarlet flames lick their shadows onto her ivory shift and over the side of her angled face. In this light she looks twice as beautiful, and three times as haunting. Sansa turns to him then, and despite the anger and confusion he holds towards her, he feels as if he should drop to his knees and declare that he'll never worship another god as long as he can worship her. Unadulterated and pure _love_ makes him feel as if a hand as cold as ice is squeezing his heart. 

Her hair is wild and flowing around her and her eyes are crystalline and shining with what Jon imagines are the beginnings of tears, but they're urging and he knows she's waiting for him to say the words. 

"Robb...." he finds he winces out the name despite the fact he had gotten better at it lately, but there is a new pain behind it now rather than the memory of a dead brother. She becomes stiff as he steps closer to her, and she's not the only one bathed in light as the flames throw themselves against his face; but he can guess they don't burn him as much as her "he's mine isn't he Sansa? He's my son?" 

His words were harsher sounding than he wanted to make them but the anger bubbling inside him decides to cloak themselves in his speech and he can't swallow it down. He can see a flicker of something on her face akin to defiance, and he thinks for one horrid moment that she'll deny it, or worse tell him that he truly is wrong. But her shoulders become slack and she sighs out a heavy breath that he thinks she must have been holding in since he entered her room. 

"Yes, he's yours" she tells him and those three words bring everything around him tumbling down. Those words hurt more than all the stab wounds his brothers in black had inflicted on him so many years ago. And he feels as if she's twisting a knife inside him now, twisting and twisting until there's nothing left. 

 _I have a son_. He chants it repeatedly inside his head and the voice only gets louder and louder until he can hear nothing else. 

"Yes, you have a son" Sansa says, and he realises he must have said it aloud for she's just answered him. His eyes snap to hers abruptly and he can feel his anger set into his features. 

"How Sansa!" he bellows, not caring if he wakes the entire castle; or the entire North for that matter "How could you keep this from me?" 

"I wanted to tell you" she defends just as loud and he scoffs at that answer. Some how he expected it. 

"Then what kept you from it? What madness possessed you to hide something like that from me?" Jon asks her, fury seeping into his every pore. But he can see the flames from the hearth bounce in her eyes and he knows, not even the rage of a dragon can match that of a wolf. She turns from him abruptly and her breathing is ragged and quick. 

 _What right has she to be angry? When I'm the one who has every right_ , he says to himself. 

"You were gone, and I did not know if you'd return so I kept it to myself. I hid behind these walls while our child grew inside me for fear that someone would find out" she tells him, and he can not see sense in it.  He can not see sense in hiding a child from it's father. 

"So keeping me in the dark was for the best?" Jon growls and she whirls around again, her beauty ablaze with her fury. 

"Westeros was at war! _You_ were at war! And your own aunt, the mad queen tried to trick you into alliance only to murder you because of your claim to the throne! What do you think _Daenerys_ _Stormborn_ would have done if she had heard word that behind the walls of Winterfell there was another Targaryen heir?" Sansa questions him "she would have murdered my son without question" 

There's an ugly voice inside his head that tells him it's true, that Daenerys would have killed a babe to secure her claim to the hulking chair that almost tore apart all of Westeros. He's suddenly reminded of her milk white hands, stained with blood and ash, around his throat while squeezing the life from him. Did Sansa know he almost died? Did she know her face was the last thing he thought of before the gods could come for him? Did she know it was the thought of seeing her again that caused him to have the courage to kill his fathers sister? _Did she know?_

A sword of dripping crimson, hair as white as snow splayed on the ground and her body slumped beneath the Iron Throne. Jon shakes his head to get rid of the images, and they're replaced by Sansa. _Always Sansa_. 

"We won the war, and the Dragon Queen was slain" Jon argues "you could have told me then, you could have sent a raven" 

"I birthed our son the day I heard you were crowned king, and I knew....I knew as I held him that you were lost, that you were never coming back" her voice is sad, haunting as a ghost and soft as a whisper. He feels lost for sure, but there is still a quiet battle that rages inside him "and then word reached me that you were to be wed to one of the Martell girls. A fitting match to end the rivalry"

"That was nothing, idle gossip from the capitol" he shakes his head, his heart pounding in his chest at her words. He hadn't thought that she would have known, that she would have heard of his betrothal to one of the Dornish women that knelt to him as he was crowned. 

"Idle gossip from the capitol always has a way of shifting to truth" Sansa tells him bitterly, and he clenches his teeth. He did not come here to talk of his marriage plans, one's he refused profusely because of the very woman who stands before him. 

"This isn't about that! This is about our son who has no idea who I truly am to him!" he finds he's shouting again, but if he feels guilty for raising his voice to her he does not show it "you knew, you knew all our lives how I hated growing up without my mother, and now you shift that pain to Robb, letting him grow without a father? What have you told him? Who does he think his father is? Some knight? A lord? Did you tell him I was dead?" 

"You might as well have been dead!" she shouts back, tears spilling down her cheeks "you left me and you never came back! You walked right out that door when I needed you most and you just left Jon!" 

"I _needed_ to leave, and when I took that gods forsaken throne I wanted you beside me. I wanted nothing more but you wouldn't come when I wrote to you" anger is replaced by sadness as he speaks and he can see her fury die behind her eyes "I thought I'd left you for too long, and that you'd given up on me so I stopped hoping you'd join me" 

Her eyes lock with his, blue skies and grey clouds and together they are a storm brewing thunderously and rain falls from her eyes and down the soft skin of her cheeks and in between the valley of her breasts. She turns around again and walks towards the fire. His steps are quiet as he stands beside her, his eyes gazing at every sad feature on her face. 

"They took my fathers head at the Great Sept of Baelor" she whispers softly, and he wonders if she's talking to the flames or to him. But with the blood in his veins he knows there's no difference. Her voice is rough pages turning in a book and the crackling embers in the hearth. It's all memory and pain and Jon can't help but feel like he's talking to a ghost. Maybe he is "they used to beat me in the throne room, they stripped me naked and made me beg like a peasant for forgiveness of things I never even done. They made me call my family traitors in front of the whole court. You don't know what it was like Jon. And I will never go back there. I will not bring my son there either" 

He knows there is pain behind her that no one will ever come close to understanding, and he knows that pain makes her want to protect their son from the fate that the rest of their family suffered. Maybe hiding him away in Winterfell, far from the suspicious eyes and clawed clutches of those at court was the best idea. But Jon knows denying him his father was wrong. 

" _Our_ _son_ , Sansa" he reminds her, and her eyes jump straight to his "he's mine too and I'll have a say in what's best for him" 

"You _don't_ have a say! You'll leave soon enough and go back to that _place_ , and sit on that _throne_ and we'll stay here. We'll be fine without you" her words are as quick as the flames that are dying, but he knows she doesn't mean them. There is no sincerity in her words, and her quivering lip and her fast flowing tears give it away. 

"I don't want you to be without me" he whispers, stepping closer to her. 

"I've gotten used to it" she bites, a pale hand wiping away her tears. Jon wants to replace her hand with his lips; to taste the salt and pain on her face and tell her that it'll be alright in the end. They're Jon and Sansa; they have to be alright in the end. 

"Have you? Because I know I haven't gotten used to it" Jon's voice is gentle as his trembling hands come to take her face. She's shocked by the sudden contact as she lets out a small gasp, but there is nothing in her eyes that makes him believe she wants him to let go. So he doesn't. 

"Jon..." she protests weakly, but he only shushes her with a soft sound. 

"I can't be without you Sansa. I won't allow it again. These past years have been like living at the Wall again, cold and distant and I need you with me. I need you to be beside me when I rule the Seven Kingdoms. I'm the King and I command the gods to never let us be apart again, they have to listen to me" she lets a smile crack through her strong facade and he can't help but smile back as his thumbs wipe the tears from her face "I love you, you must know I love you" 

"I love you too, Jon" she sobs, blue eyes ringed in a crown of red and her lips that rival the colors of blossoms tremble with her words. She has almost whispered them every night to herself, but saying them while he can hear her almost brings her to her knees. 

Their lips find one another's, and all worries and arguments seem to dissolve when they touch. They share a son, and Jon knows that in the morning when the sun rises over Winterfell he will tell his auburn haired boy the truth, and he knows with the way Sansa kisses him that she will not stop him. 

He has won over seven kingdoms but Sansa's heart and body is the eighth and he conquers it fully as he lays her down on her furs. He's the king but he will bend and kneel to her every want and whim and he will crown her in love and passion for as long as he can hold her in his arms. She does not stop calling his name that night, and it's as fulfilling and more victorious than any throne or crown he can own.

He's a Targaryen but he knows that no dragons fire can warm him as much as she can when she's loving him so furiously, or when her lips are ravaging him like the wolf she is. Four years of wanting and waiting present themselves in her bed chamber, and in some ways it's almost worth the wait, and worth all the pain. As they lay together, naked and sweaty limbs intertwined, he asks her again to join him in the city that shapes her nightmares but she doesn't reply. She only mumbles his name again as sleep takes her in its clutches.

He doesn't know whether or not she will come with him, or if he'll wake in the morning and find her gone. Just like he had left her so many years ago. His mind and heart wages a war inside him, at the conclusion of it all, but somehow, the way she clings to him in her sleep makes him believe that they'll never be apart again.   

 

 

 

 


End file.
